More than one death must be endured.
Scorch the all—world, will, and wonder.
Efforts, emotions, ego and essence.
Cower, underneath hollowed curtains.
Whisper taunting, “Die...again, once more.”

And, I do. With each terror-filled veil,
Tapestry of awe, and banner of horror.
Why must I submit to such suffering,
Nightmarish days and moonlight tremors

…are you the sister of sleep?

Oh, why do I will it to be, long for it so?
Is it masochism, macabre, or inadequacy
To slice thy intelligence through opiate shades.
Carving at rotten soul, stripping away the pieces.
Sear, char, and burn my edges, until ashy frivolity.

Will you be satiated with such a banquet,
Smiling as the fats of me glisten in your teeth.
Do you savour the seasoning of humourous angst? Feasting on form, on figure, leaving no impression.
For years and eons...Is your belly not yet full?

I surrender. Willingly. Into inspired idea.
Submitting. Seeking rejuvenation, replenishment through arduous travels and worldly torments.
Fill out muscle and mass, offer more of a meal,
To the mercy of your fiery blade.

I ferment myself for thee: how tasty it must be.
In salts and spices, sprinkled on vestiges
of the sense, meanings, and knowings.
So a palette as sublime as yours can spittle
a drop or two for my comprehension.

Thirst unquenched, so I drink in mirage.

Why torment the designer? Failed artist
and engineer, sweetened for your taste?
Are old stories and new visions unpalatable?
Aghast, you rub coarse salt into raw wounds,
Lamenting my reliance on sight to create.

Why won’t you relent? Why won’t you wait?
”Too enamoured by reflection,” you say,
”The window to festivity remains unseen.”
I plead, then give me blindness, so I can see.
You obliged and incubated me with darkness.

Then with Nyx you came, in glimpse and glance.
Galloping through the grounds and gales of the works. Communing, massaging focus, force and persuasion. Dancing, while stumbling into your steps of approval. Remembering, your rhythm in rote rhyme.

Echoes of slaughter ebb away bright future.
Naked, no fantastical fabrics to adorn. No culture. Impoverished amongst societies gems and jewels. Lost in lies, lore, and lullabies. Cradled in contempt. Cold in wax and wane.
At least hell has a home.

“Do not fear him for when he beckons,
Go to him, he will lead you on the way.
Fear marks the time, horror the space,
Witness both to find his conjunction.
Dread blows a trumpet of his arrival.

Time and space will retract from reflection,
Mere fanciful stories and visions, to entertain.
Invitation awaits at terror’s trident tip.
Along veins of broadening awareness,
Let it die too; word of him will appear.”

Callings come in the comfort of darkness.
Gentle mound, place of death’s warm palm.
Soft in grip, led on towards the grand galley.
We walk. Flushed in flesh, strained in bone,
to the gate. Knowing more must be offered.

“Bludgeon thyself, thy mind, thy soul
And reality will reveal its shimmer.
Find damp plaster hardening over thy cast
And contours of falsehoods shall fade to truth.
Lay the scents of lilies at the feet of society
And you will stand stable under the ark.
Lean with solemnity at the catafalque of culture
Weighty in judgement, to hear wisdom’s whisper.
Carry the cloth-lined carcass through the desert
In tomorrows ground, yesterday finds rest.”

And what remains of me?

No meat to rest upon thy platter,

No bone to grind at the mill,

No jus to flavour thy bread,

Not a morsel of flesh,

No salt, no scent,
Just spectre.

Listen.

“Meter shall be your guide.
Beauty awaits, in what remains.
Through the pane-less view.”